


peace in the valley

by duckybarnes (ysl_harrie)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - War, Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military, Sexuality Crisis, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysl_harrie/pseuds/duckybarnes
Summary: “Bucky, are you sure you can handle this?” Steve presses, doesn’t realise he’s used the wrong nickname until it’s too late.Bucky grits his teeth with a growl, then clears his rifle, loud slide of metal on metal. “Fucking ask me again, Rogers.”modern military AU
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 19
Kudos: 171





	peace in the valley

There’s a certain smell that hits you when you step off the back of the plane in Afghanistan. Something hot and dusty and herbal. 

Captain Steve Rogers pushes his sunglasses higher on his nose, squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of memories, and strides out the back of the cargo hold. His second in command, First Lieutenant Sam Wilson, is waiting for him next to a parked Humvee on the far side of the tarmac. 

“Nice pips you got there, Lieutenant,” Steve teases with a grin, flicking the rank insignia on Sam’s uniform. Sam had been on Steve’s team on prior tours, as a corporal and sergeant, and had recently commissioned as an officer. Steve had to fight to get Sam back on his team for this trip— it was unusual to have both an experienced lieutenant and senior captain in one small special forces team. 

“Aw, shut up, man,” Sam grouses, pulling him in for a one-armed hug. “It’s good to see you. How’s things Stateside?”

“Quiet,” Steve replies shortly, promptly cutting off a tirade of well-meaning questions when Sam frowns by moving to sling his pack into the backseat of the Humvee. There’s a fresh private sitting there who jumps out, stammering, and raises his hand as if to salute Steve. 

Sam slaps the kid’s hand down as he rounds the side of the vehicle, then smacks him upside the head. “Goddammit Gabe, you know you don’t salute in country, Jesus. Wanna get our Captain here picked off by a sniper, huh?”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Captain.” The private, Gabe, stammers, turning to them in turn. Steve eyes him up and down: takes in the clean patches, bloused camo pants, all meeting regulation— the kid was still in issued boots, for fucks sake. 

“First trip?” Steve smiles kindly. Gabe nods bashfully. “Don’t sweat it, kid— after one patrol you’ll be strutting around the base like you own the joint,” Steve reaches out to pat Sam on the shoulder, “just like the good Lieutenant here.” 

“Fuck off,” Sam snorts, shoving at both of their shoulders to herd them into the Humvee. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand. And quit it with that ‘good lieutenant’ shit, Rogers— I don’t want a sniper using _my_ head for target practice, either.” 

*** 

They roll into base, get a full security sweep, and then Steve spends the next four hours being frog-marched by Sam around the entire fricking FOB, conducting his march-in admin and clearances. He’s only been out of country for six months, but it feels like a lifetime, and with it comes a lifetime of admin to catch up on. 

The first thing Steve had done when he landed back in the US was get in his truck, and drive. He crossed through two states before he realised he was heading home. He’d driven past his tiny high school and the factory where all the men worked and the strip mall where all the ladies spent their days and down the street where his mother and father lived still— pictures of her teenaged ghost on the mantle and no pictures of Steve. 

He had idled in front of that house for nearly twenty minutes, thinking about how much smaller it looked now, from the outside world. Wondered what would happen if he just went up and knocked on the door, said, ‘bet you didn’t think you’d see me again’, or ’did you even try to find me’, or ‘you know she hated it here’. Instead he drove on, wound up back in his own cold bed, tried to remember what he used to do before he buried his life into the sand, couldn’t. 

He’d put his name forward for the next rotation the second day he was home. 

By the time he and Sam slog through all the march-in admin and get around to meeting up with the rest of their team, it’s nearing dinner time and everyone is converging on the mess tent. 

“I told the boys to wait up and meet their new captain,” Sam is explaining as he hustles Steve towards the maze of tents. “I mean, most of them you’ve worked with before, but there’s a few greenies in there, and it’s your first time in full command, so…” 

Sam’s giving him a rundown on the backgrounds and experience levels of Steve’s new subordinates when they approach a familiar group of men loitering outside of the mess. Most of them have scruffy beards and non-regulation haircuts, making them stand out from the squeaky clean military masses. That, and the constantly shifting, haunted eyes— that’s what marks out Steve’s guys as SF. 

“Gents,” Steve greets as they sidle up to the group, grinning as a few of his long-time teammates shout out and converge in a flurry of back-slapping and fist-bumping. 

“Congrats on the lead this time around, boss,” Dum Dum, their operations sergeant, states. 

Next to him is Monty, the team medic. “Yeah, surprised they’re letting you outside the wire with only Wilson to babysit.” 

“Hey, don’t undermine me in front of the new recruits,” Sam grouches, shoving Monty aside as he points out the new faces to Steve. 

“We have Morita from the intel team, and Gabe, who you’ve met. They come with high praise from a buddy of mine at 2nd Battalion.”

“Nice to have you along for the ride, boys,” Steve grins, then does a quick headcount. “Only six, Sam?”

Sam’s smile goes a little rigid. “The brass on the hill have decided to shake things up a little for us.” He nods to a trio of men loitering a few metres away from their group, who begin to slowly amble over. 

They’ve got the same beards as Steve’s guys, but they’re dressed in cargo pants and dark t-shirts, military boots and baseball caps. The unofficial uniform of a military contractor. _Mercenaries._

Steve fights not to visibly clench his jaw as Sam introduces them by name and role. “We’ve got Dernier here running security detail, Clint— and Clint’s dog Lucky— on explosive ordnance detection, and…” 

“Overwatch,” the third member says from under the brim of his hat, voice cool and quiet and so familiar that all Steve hears is the sudden rush of blood in his ears. Then the man tilts his face up to look directly at Steve— cautious eyes, chewing on the inside of his cheek— and Steve nearly forgets where he is.

“Bu— Barnes?” 

He catches himself at the last second. It still comes out too breathy, too shocked, too… emotional. He can feel his ears turning boiled-lobster-pink. If Bucky hears the nickname almost-slip, he shows no indication. Just looks evenly back at Steve, too-calm and giving away nothing behind those bright eyes. 

Steve suddenly becomes very aware of his team— his subordinates— standing all around him, some of whom are looking at him like he’s just grown two heads. Sam is looking at him like he’s just stripped naked, coated himself in tar, and taken a running leap at the chicken coop.

“Wilson.” Steve spins on his heel to face Sam. “Get the guys inside and save me a plate of food, would you? I’m just gonna—”

“Yeah.” Sam snorts, shaking his head as he turns away and starts shoving at the men until they amble off into the mess tent. The other two contractors follow suit. 

Steve turns back to face Bucky when it’s just the two of them. _Bucky Barnes._ Steve didn’t think he’d ever see him again, and certainly not on a deployment. Not after… But here he is, standing pigeon-toed— _nervous—_ with his shoulders tensed up around his ears; all tight-fitting khaki and too-long hair curling around his jaw. 

“You look good, Barnes. I mean— better, you look better. I thought… What are you—” Steve forces himself to start again. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Bucky watches placidly as Steve fumbles for words, that strange, guarded expression shuttering his face. Steve recognises it; has never had that cold expression turned on himself. He suddenly realises he is way out of his depth here. 

“Well.” Bucky finally says, in a quiet, even tone. “You should probably have a word with your intel guys then. Sir.” 

Steve flinches. He’d deployed with Bucky on four— and a half— tours, and could probably count the number of times he’d actually called Steve _‘Sir’_ on one hand. 

“You used to call me Rogers.” It’s out before Steve can stop it, and Bucky’s mask breaks, if only for a second. Steve can feel himself flushing red, neck hot, when Bucky takes a step backwards, hand rubbing at his stubbled chin self consciously. 

“I didn’t mean—” Bucky begins, right as Steve blurts out, “Better check on my guys—”

Bucky freezes, eyes going suddenly icy, hard. He lets out a humourless laugh. “You did always take the easy out. _Rogers_.” 

Steve gapes at him dumbly for a second, before the indignation erupts in his chest. But Bucky is shaking his head, already turned and gone. 

_***_

**_Then._ **

The first time Steve met Bucky, Steve was halfway through his first rotation, still a fresh lieutenant, and he was having a hard time remembering why he ever signed up in the first place. He really didn’t think he could take it much longer; the eyes of his men, all hardened and not-quite right… the eyes of the locals, wary and afraid… the eyes of the dead, his bullet in their chest. And all for what?

The boss had announced that their sniper, Rodriguez, would be rotating out of the team, and introduced them to their new overwatch, Sergeant James Barnes. He had given them a little wave, a closed-lip smile. 

The new sergeant was quiet; calm and still in a way that the other men on Steve’s team never were. Steve felt drawn to him, soothed by that steady, solid presence. Barnes allowed it, silently accepted the brooding young lieutenant as his shadow. 

The team had come off of a week of familiarisation training and were preparing for a mission the following day, dispersed throughout the base. Steve was slowly cleaning out his weapon, deep in thought. Next to him, Sergeant Barnes was scrubbing at his long range sniper rifle with practised efficiency. 

“Easy with the gun oil, boss,” came a low, raspy voice from Steve’s left, startling him out of his mulling. “Too much lube is no fun for anyone.”

Steve spluttered, lost for words as he blinked at the sergeant. _Did he just say…?_ Barnes had his head down, scrubbing at his weapon, but Steve could see him tamping down a smile, the corner of his mouth fighting to stay neutral. 

“Well,” Steve managed after a moment, “whatever you say, Sarge. You’re the expert.” 

Barnes actually snorted, shaking his head with a little grin as he flipped over the body of his rifle. Steve beamed, then turned back to his own weapon. 

“Is it harder to clean out?” Steve broke the silence after a moment. “The long rifle?” 

Barnes lifted his head to meet Steve’s eyes, lips quirked up in a smirk. “I think there’s a euphemism in there, somewhere.” 

For some reason, Steve felt his neck start to go hot. He stammered out a laugh, ducking his head to try and hide his reddening face. 

Barnes let him off the hook, slowly beginning to reassemble his rifle. “I have a lotta respect for this rifle. We spend a lot of time together. And sometimes, she’s the only thing between my men and the enemy.” 

Steve looked up, chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Do you… d’you ever keep track? Of how many?” 

Barnes knew what Steve was asking, if the way his hands stilled and shoulders went tight was any indication. After a moment, he visibly forced himself to relax, kept his face turned away. “It doesn’t do you any good to dwell on the numbers. You’re out here to do a job… and protecting people comes at a cost.” 

The air around them felt thick, heavy with silence. Steve blinked away memories of lifeless eyes, and refocused on the flecks of blood— not his— on his boots that just wouldn’t come out. He scrubbed at them harshly in the quiet, half-tearing his nail off in the process, until warm, calloused fingers gently steadied his hand. 

Steve snapped his head up, met Barnes’s searching eyes, saw the understanding there. “Does it ever get easier?” he whispered. 

Barnes released his hand, Steve’s fingers twitching towards him, but held his gaze. “It should never get easier. If the things you do out here don’t keep you up at night, then you’ve lost the part of you that makes you human. Doesn’t mean you’re alone, though. We’ve all been through it, and we will always have your back, Rogers.” 

Steve let out a shaky breath, nodded, turned his face out to the horizon. The sun was just beginning to set behind the ragged mountains, painting the sand and scrubby trees blue-cold and golden. It was beautiful, out here. That was part of the problem, the reason it was all so sickening; all of the wasted potential. “Thanks, Sergeant.” 

“You can call me Bucky,” Barnes offered quietly, shooting him one of those closed-lip smiles. 

“Bucky,” Steve repeated, nodding. There was something warm in Steve’s chest, stirring against his ribs. It felt like being seen; like having someone finally care. 

They went back to cleaning their weapons, the cathartic task of fixing something up and putting it back together with your own two hands. After a while, Steve realised that Barnes— Bucky— was singing under his breath, a song that he didn’t recognise, but made that warmth in his ribs creep higher, all the same. 

_“When it comes down to dealing friends, it never ends. Take another shot of courage, wonder why the right words never come. You just get numb.”_

_***_

**_Now._ **

As the clock ticks over to 0700 hours, Steve is waiting in front of his commanding officer’s tent. The Lieutenant Colonel rolls his eyes as he arrives, but ushers Steve inside nonetheless. 

The CO settles into his desk chair with a sigh, eyeballing Steve where he stands, practically vibrating after pacing the length of his room all night. “How can I help you today, Captain Rogers? Bearing in mind that you have no brownie points left to use with me.” 

“With respect, Sir—”

“I doubt it.”

“— I strongly suggest that we don’t work with mercenaries.” 

“Military contractors,” the CO corrects. “Hired by the DoD. One of whom, I understand, you and your men have served with previously. The sniper— Barnes?”

Steve blinks. “I maintain my concern over the use of contracted killers.”

“And what do you consider yourself to be, then?” The CO challenges calmly. Steve is at a rare loss for words. “Do you know why you’re here, son?”

“To secure the region, Sir.” Steve parrots reflexively. “I mean… we’re supposed to be gaining control from the insurgents, to hand the area back to the local landowners. But the people won’t engage with us, Sir. They’re scared of the insurgents, who still run this place behind our backs— doing their business at night, controlling the distribution of water, buying up the locals’ crops.”

The CO watches him rant with a carefully blank expression. 

“I just mean… I don’t know how bringing in contractors is going to buy us any legitimacy with the local people.” Steve finishes, feeling himself deflate a little. 

The CO nods at him, not unkindly, picking up a classified briefing folder from the stack on his desk. “Your concern is noted, Rogers.” 

“… Thank you, Sir.”

“You and your team still roll out in three hours.” A pause. “Rogers.” 

“Noted. Sir.” 

*** 

**_Then._ **

Bucky had always been the quiet sort, but over the years, he had been becoming increasingly withdrawn. This tour had been the worst yet— he was barely even talking to Steve, and everyone knew they were thick as thieves. 

Steve had decided that it was getting to the point of affecting the team’s performance, and resolved to go hash it out with Bucky, or force him to see someone who he would talk to. He left the gym halfway through his workout that night, on a mission, striding across the base until he reached the barracks, stopping short when he pulled up at Bucky’s door. His sergeant was a notoriously private man, and after all these years, Steve had never actually been in his room. 

He was about to knock, when he heard a pained-sounding groan, and panicked, forcing the door open. “Bucky? Are you okay— oh, shit!”

Steve stared, mouth agape, before his brain came back online and he pivoted, slamming the door behind him. He took two breaths to steady himself, then hurried away. He barely kept from tripping over his own feet, ears ringing in shock, the image seared against his eyelids. 

It had been a man in Bucky’s bed. 

He found himself halfway to the perimeter fence before he realised he’d been wandering aimlessly for who-knows-how-long, and re-routed towards his own barracks block. When he turned down his hallway, there was someone sitting in front of his door, knees pulled up defensively. Bucky scrambled upwards as Steve approached; each eyeing the other warily. 

“You’d better come inside,” Steve said quietly, moving to open the door. Bucky gave him a wide berth, and hesitated outside the threshold.

“You sure you want me to come in, Sir?” he mumbled, chin tipped down. 

Steve froze at the use of his rank, his brain kicking back into gear when he realised that this was _Bucky_ , standing here hurting, scared and avoiding Steve’s eyes.

“Hey,” Steve said, as softly as he could manage. “Buck. It’s just me. It’s alright, please.” 

Bucky looked up quickly at the nickname, then stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind him. They stood awkwardly, until Bucky mumbled out, “Are you going to report me?”

Steve blew out a breath, tore his fingers through his hair, still sweaty from the aborted workout that felt like years ago now. “Shit, Bucky, of course not.” 

He tried to ignore how his heart clenched when Bucky finally faced him, mouth gaping a little in surprise. Did he really think Steve would tank his career, just because Bucky was… 

“So,” Steve hedged, suddenly realising he was well and truly in the deep end with no life jacket. And Steve Rogers is many things, but a confident swimmer, he ain’t. “You’re, um… you like—”

“Do we really have to talk about this?” Bucky winced, twisting the hem of his shirt between both hands, toes turned inwards, pigeon-toed. It was Bucky’s tell, when he was nervous. 

“Do we _need_ to talk about this?” Steve huffed out, fighting the heat crawling up his neck, scorching his ears pink. “Is everything— are you ok, Buck?”

Bucky blinked at him, seeming a little taken aback. “Yeah. I mean… yeah, I’m fine.” After a moment, he stepped a half-pace closer, searching Steve’s face. “Are _we_ ok, Steve?” 

Something hot and achy fizzled low in Steve’s stomach at the sound of his name in Bucky’s mouth. He refused to acknowledge it; cleared his throat, shoved both hands in his pockets. “Yeah, man, of course we’re ok. Not a big deal. You’re still you, I’m still me.” 

Bucky’s shoulders slumped in visible relief, and he smiled tentatively at Steve, whispered, “Thanks. That— means a lot.” 

Something frantic was pulsing at the back of Steve’s tongue, his heart racing with adrenaline, and he had to stop this conversation before he blurted out something without thinking it through. Before he confessed something that he was really, really gonna regret in the morning. 

Steve smiled quickly back at Bucky, then checked his watch. “Well, I’d better hit the showers.” Bucky huffed a laugh at his tactless change of subject, clearly chalked it up to Steve’s usual social awkwardness, and moved to open the door. 

“Hey,” Steve blurted, and before his brain caught up with his body, he was tugging Bucky into his arms. _What the fuck, Steven. We are not huggers._

Bucky went stiff as a board for a heartbeat, then squeezed Steve back, tight, his face pinned awkwardly between Steve’s shoulder and neck. Steve got a face full of Bucky’s hair, which smelled faintly like leather and gun oil, something else, muskier… and now Steve knew exactly how Bucky smelled after sex. 

With that thought, and something hot pinging at the base of his spine, Steve abruptly pushed back, holding Bucky at arms’ length. Bucky blinked big round eyes up at him, looking like a puppet being jerked around on a string; probably because Steve was now grinning manically and gripping at his shoulders. 

_Someone slipped and fell— was that someone you?_

“That’s enough soppy shit,” he trilled too loudly, smoothing down Bucky’s hoodie over his upper arms before he got a grip on himself and darted away, tugging the door open. “See you at breakfast?” 

“Yeah, boss,” Bucky laughed easily, shooting him a mock-salute as he headed out the door. “Enjoy your shower.” 

_With arms wide open, he’ll pardon you._

Later, Steve tried not to replay Bucky’s parting words in his mind, as he stood under freezing water; trying desperately to wash away the visual of all that warm skin, and the way Bucky’s body felt under Steve’s hands. 

_It is no secret, what God can do._

_***_

**_Now._ **

Their patrol convoys out at daybreak. They’re on a familiarisation mission, directed to roll through a couple of the local villages and scope out the area, see if anything suspicious catches their eye. 

Steve nods to the guards on duty as he manoeuvres the first vehicle through the base’s entry checkpoint, reaches up to radio in to the other two vehicles following behind him. “Heads on a swivel, boys. Everyone’s alert until we roll back through that boom gate tonight.” 

He waits for the answering acknowledgements before re-attaching the radio handset to the dashboard. “Good, Sam?” 

“Fresh air, sunshine, best view in the house?” Sam answers from above him, manning the top gun. “You know I am, boss.” 

Steve glances sidelong at his passenger seat. He hadn’t been able to come up with a quick enough excuse when Bucky had declared he was riding shotgun in the lead Humvee, in that quiet, solid way of his that didn’t leave much room for argument. 

It made sense— Bucky was a sniper, was trained to see things before others did. That’s why he was the best IED spotter they had. But he knew Steve was driving the lead vehicle… were they just supposed to sit in silence the whole day? Make small talk about the weather? Analyse the failings of their shared past? 

“Eyes on the road,” Bucky mutters, low enough that only Steve can hear him. Steve jerks his gaze away with a sharp breath, clenches his jaw as he stares resolutely out the front windscreen. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, isn’t really sure why. In his peripherals he sees Bucky turn his head fractionally towards Steve, then turn back, silent. 

They go another ten miles before Bucky suddenly throws his arm out towards Steve, as if to claw at his hand on the steering wheel, calling out, “ _Stop!_ ” 

Steve slams on the brakes, reflexively checking the rearview mirror to see the other two vehicles come to a screeching halt behind him, clouds of sand and dust. “What? What is it?” 

Bucky’s outstretched hand diverts course, grabbing the radio. “Clint,” he orders into the handset, then clicks it off, sparing Steve a glance. “Wiring on the road ahead of us.” 

Steve squints through the hazy windscreen, can just pick out the glint of something metallic tangled on the side of the road about a hundred meters to their front. Bucky cracks open his door, jumps out, and Steve swears under his breath, barely remembers to grab his rifle before he’s scrambling around the side of the vehicle to catch up to Clint and Bucky on the other side. 

Clint is securing Lucky’s harness, nodding as Bucky points out the potential IED on the road ahead of them. Clint gives Steve a sunny smile, uncharacteristic in their line of work, and gestures to Lucky. “Happy for us to go check it out, boss?” 

Steve spares a second to grit his teeth in annoyance at Bucky, and motions for Clint to wait out. “Wilson? Got eyes on any movement?”

Sam is scanning their surroundings, looking for insurgents lying in wait to remotely trigger an IED, or to ambush a stopped convoy. “Nothing here. Dernier? Gabe?” he calls to the other top gunners, who both call back negatives. 

Steve shoots Sam a thumbs up, and turns back to Clint. “Ok. Take your time, be careful.” 

Clint gives him a serious nod, then sets off with Lucky leading the way, prowling like she’s stalking prey. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Steve rounds on Bucky, fully intending on dressing him down after he clearly undermined Steve’s leadership back there. 

But the expression on Bucky’s face stops him dead in his tracks— pained and vulnerable in a way that Steve has only seen once, and doesn’t care to re-live. Bucky looks like he’s watching Clint edge towards the possible IED, but it’s clear he’s someplace else; eyes flickering, unseeing, breathing gone shallow. 

“Barnes,” Steve says lowly, stepping in front of Bucky in an effort to shield him from Sam’s view. “Hey, are you with me?” 

Bucky’s eyes suddenly snap to Steve’s, too round, still breathing harshly. 

“Yeah, there you are,” Steve soothes, feeling not for the first time like he’s drowning, and he’s not sure if he’s keeping Bucky afloat or taking them down together, “that’s it, nice slow breaths. Stay with me here, Sergeant. You’re ok.” 

After a second, Bucky’s breathing evens out, and he blinks, coming back to himself. “Not a sergeant,” he whispers, raspy, before coughing in embarrassment, stepping back from Steve hastily. 

There’s a crunch of footsteps approaching over his shoulder, and Steve glances up to see Clint and Lucky on their way back, waving the all clear. Steve turns quickly back to Bucky, tries not to let his concern show on his face. “Are you ok?”

Bucky is hunched in on himself slightly, pigeon-toed, avoiding Steve’s eyes. “I’m fine.” 

“Boss! We good?” Sam calls out from up top, anxious to get the convoy moving again. Steve signals for him to wait. 

“Bucky, are you sure you can handle this?” Steve presses, doesn’t realise he’s used the wrong nickname until it’s too late. 

Bucky grits his teeth with a growl, then clears his rifle, loud slide of metal on metal. “Fucking ask me again, Rogers.” 

Steve pauses for a beat, stunned, then turns, tilts his face up. “We’re good to go, Sam!”

They only have to stop for one more potential IED over the course of the day, as they convoy between villages. They get out and move on foot for most of the day, Bucky up ahead with Morita, translating into Farsi for them. 

Bucky’s pulled a black scarf over his nose and mouth to keep out the dust; matched with a black chest rig, a pistol holder strapped to one thigh, combat knife strapped to the other. He looks kind of terrifying, to be frank, and Steve thinks that the locals would be too scared to speak to him if it weren’t for the fluro-pink hair band— Steve is not calling it a _scrunchie_ —pulling his hair into a bun, low underneath the back of his combat helmet.

“Very tactical,” Dum Dum had snorted when he’d seen it before they left base. 

“Got a problem with the colour pink, Dummy?” Bucky had challenged, smirking when Dum Dum had backed off, grumbling at him for the nickname.

Bucky is good with the local kids, but then again he always was. He has young nephews, Steve remembers, wonders how old they are by now. Doesn’t think about how the girls skirting around the edges of the buildings are the same age as his sister was, when… 

Sam catches him watching Bucky more than once, until Steve pushes forward, positions Bucky behind him in the patrol formation, frustrated with himself for getting distracted.

They turn back towards base when the sun starts setting; weary after being on alert for so long, bone-warm and sleepy. 

Bucky’s curled up a little in the passenger seat, face tilted out towards the window— always watching— wisps of hair around his face fried golden, skin molten in the setting sun. Steve has to repress a full-body reaction when he realises Bucky is singing softly under his breath, recognises the song.

_“If you want to leave, take good care. Hope you make a lot of nice friends out there. Just remember there’s a lot of bad everywhere.”_

Steve forces himself to swallow back down the emotion clogging up his throat, forces himself to look away from Bucky’s lips softly forming the words. Turns them onto the gravel road leading into the base as the sun slips beyond the horizon. 

Dinner at the mess that night is a quiet affair— his team chatting amiably among themselves, exchanging backgrounds, making connections between all of their mutual acquaintances. Steve is catching up with Sam, trying not to pay attention to Bucky, who has his head down at the other end of the table, pushing sloppy chicken korma and rice around his plate. 

“So how did you end up working here?” Gabe asks from their end of the table, and Steve is a little confused before he realises the question was directed at Bucky. 

Bucky lifts his head, flicks his eyes to Clint before answering, “I served previously with some of the guys on the team.” 

“Oh, really?” Gabe exclaims, starry-eyed. “You used to be SF?” 

Bucky nods silently, as Dum Dum sweeps in, valiantly trying to redirect the conversation. “Yep, we deployed a few times together— Barnes, Monty, me, Wilson and the Captain— all before you were even out of diapers, Jones!” 

Gabe grumbles good naturedly, but is still fascinated with Bucky. “Must be strange to come back with Sir Wilson as your boss, and Captain Rogers running the show!” 

“Must be,” Bucky mumbles, tugging his ball cap a little lower over his eyes, fidgeting.

“How’d you become a contractor?” 

Ah, yes. The inevitable question. Steve feels Sam tense beside him.

“Gabe,” Morita reprimands sharply, but Bucky waves him off.

“It’s ok,” he says, voice gone strangely flat, gaze distant. “We were on a mission that went bad, had to leave in a hurry. Hit an IED. Lost men.”

The rest of the table is frozen, a bubble of silence warping the sounds around them; watching a train run out of tracks in slow motion. 

“I was med-evaced,” Bucky pushes on, fingers gripping rhythmically at his water glass, “did a lot of therapy. Got discharged. Couldn’t hack it out there in the civilian world, so here I am, courtesy of the DoD.” 

Steve can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Feels his pulse behind his eyes. 

“Shit, man, I shouldn’t have asked,” Gabe mumbles, contrite. 

“No, you’re on the team, you should know,” Bucky states, firmly, back in the present. His eyes flick up to meet Steve’s for a fraction of a second. “Secrets get people killed.”

Steve opens his mouth, to say something, anything, but Bucky is scraping his chair back suddenly; bursting the bubble of silence around them. He hurriedly clears his plate, bidding goodnight to the team before ducking through the flap of the mess tent like a shadow in the night.

The rest of the table clears out pretty soon after that, Sam shooting Steve another one of those concerned looks which he resolutely ignores. 

_Secrets get people killed._

Later, after Steve has shuffled past the closed door to Bucky’s room twice, he pauses, thinks about knocking; hears something like a shaky breath come from behind the door, and chickens out, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he ducks his head and hurries away. 

_You’re the only friend I need. Laugh until our ribs get tough. But that will never be enough._

_***_

**_Then._ **

The change seemed to happen overnight. Once Steve had accidentally stumbled upon Bucky’s secret, and Bucky realised that he really truly wasn’t about to be handed over to the senior leadership or recalled from deployment, Bucky Barnes turned into a whole different person. He started holding his head a little higher, smiled and made eye contact in conversation— even spoke up in planning meetings, offered his expertise. 

And that was just around the team, who clearly enjoyed their sergeant’s newfound easy-going attitude. When it was just the two of them, Bucky was downright jovial. He was whip-smart; this bright shining mind and dry sense of humour that had Steve doing a double-take every time Bucky made some witty comment. He just seemed more comfortable in his own skin; not shying around Steve in the change rooms, shoving good-naturedly at him in the gym. 

Steve loved seeing Bucky’s personality spilling out. Really, he did. It was just that… he couldn’t quite get that visual, the one of Bucky naked in a bed, out of his head. And every time Bucky brushed past him as they were headed for the showers, or ruffled his hair after a good run, Steve got this weird feeling in the pit of his stomach; all hot and tingly. It was freaking him out. 

He didn’t mean to flinch, when Bucky reached out to grab his arm at dinner. Or when he nudged Steve’s thigh with his knee as they bumped along in the back of a truck. Steve didn’t mean to make Bucky self conscious, didn’t mean to make him slowly withdraw back into his shell. It was just… 

They were on a routine patrol, when it all went south, and they had to withdraw from the village in a hurry; outnumbered and outside their ROE. 

They’d been running at pace, and finally cleared the area, made it back to the Humvees unscathed. Steve wasted no time flinging himself into the driver’s seat of the second vehicle, checked that his three guys made it into the vehicle with him. Except… 

“Where’s Barnes?” Steve barked, as the corporal from the lead vehicle slid into the passenger seat. Bucky’s seat.

“Told me to swap, Sir,” the corporal panted, eyebrows pinched together. “Want me to…?”

“No,” Steve bit out, turned over the engine. “Buckle up.” 

They pulled out in a flurry of sand and gravel, taking a long, serpentining route back to base in an effort to shake off any reconnaissance. Steve stewed as he drove, laser focused on the taillights of the lead vehicle in front of him. He knew Bucky had been avoiding him, but— switching vehicles? In the middle of an op? Steve clearly needed to get his shit together, apologise, and talk this through with Bucky, before one of them— 

His body slammed the brakes out of pure muscle memory, brain unable to process what he was seeing as the entire windshield lit up, eardrums popping with the force of the explosion as the Humvee in front of them triggered an IED. 

There was deathly silence for a heartbeat, as they skidded to a stop, and then the shouting started. Steve was out of his seat and running towards the smoking wreckage before he even knew what he was doing, and damn if he wasn’t going against all of his training, but _Bucky was in that vehicle_. He scrabbled at the warped door, couldn’t even feel the hot metal burning at the palms of his hands. Then there were others, helping him dig, tug at clothing, pulling bodies out of the wreckage. 

He could tell right away that two of the men were dead. The smell of burnt flesh singed his nose, made his eyes water. Someone was retching behind him— one of the new corporals. Steve blanked it out in his mind, attacked the wreckage with renewed vigour, because Bucky was still in there. Something moved, shifted against his fingers, and Steve shouted out, wordless. 

One of the sergeants— Sam Wilson— was beside him, helped him to carefully manoeuvre Bucky out of the wreckage. At first, Steve thought that Bucky was fine, that he’d miraculously escaped unharmed, and Steve nearly whited out with relief. But then he saw the mangled mess of Bucky’s left arm, and realised stupidly that the dark liquid doused over his body wasn’t oil— it was blood. 

“Oh shit, oh shit,” Steve groaned, hands slippery on Bucky’s side and he and Sam dragged him away from the burnt-out vehicle, laid him out on the road. “Oh god, Bucky.”

“Call in a med-evac, now!” Sam shouted out to the guys, loosening one of his own tourniquets from his chest rig to loop around Bucky’s shoulder. “Hold him down,” he said to Steve, beginning to tighten the strap. “This is going to hurt like a bitch.” He twisted the tourniquet into place, grimacing as Bucky moaned lowly, a broken animal sound, back arching feebly against Steve’s grip. 

“Hold on, Buck,” Steve forced out, his own voice coming back to him like he was hearing it from underwater. “We’re gonna get you help, real soon.” 

“Sarge!” A corporal shouted, running over to them. “Med-evac says they can’t get a chopper in here, we have to clear that ridge-line.” 

“Shit,” Sam hissed, ducked his head before looking at Steve. “We’ll have to go in the Humvees. Boss?”

Steve blinked up at him after a moment, when it dawned on him that Sam was asking _him_ what to do, because one of those bodies being loaded into the back of a vehicle right now had been their captain. 

“Yeah, yes— quickly,” Steve breathed, and then everything was a flurry of movement, grunting, heaving, shouting, everything too hot and gritty and slippery with blood. He found himself in the back of the Humvee crouched over Bucky, supporting his head and trying to keep pressure on his shoulder at the same time, babbling nonsense, pleading with him to just _stay alive_ as they bumped and jostled across the desert.

At some point Bucky’s eyes slid open, gaze flicking around wildly until Steve got a grip on his jaw and forced Bucky to look at him, to slow his breathing as best he could. Steve had never seen someone look like Bucky did in the back of that Humvee— pupils blown so wide, whites of his eyes flashing like a trapped animal, pained. It took Steve a beat too long to realise that Bucky’s mouth was working, like he was trying to talk. Steve scrambled upwards, tilting his face against Bucky’s, tried to make sense of the strange gasping whispers, breath coming too quick, shallow— and then he realised Bucky was _singing,_ because Bucky Barnes was nothing if not always in character. 

_“Hush little baby, don’t you cry. You know your daddy’s bound to die,”_ Bucky rasped through blue lips, eyes locked on Steve; rifle scope eyes. 

“Fuck!” Steve hissed, too loud, the others pushed closer as if to help. “Fuck, Bucky, you’re not gonna— you’re not gonna die. You’ll be fine, see? Don’t _say_ things like that…”

Bucky rolled his head away from Steve’s, eyes drifting to stare unseeingly at the roof of the vehicle. _“But all my trials lord, will soon be over.”_

The helicopter was just touching down as they swung into the clearing, piling out of the two vehicles before the dust had even cleared. 

Sam sprinted up to back-brief the pilot and onboard medical officer on the situation. Steve’s guys rushed around to help drag Bucky out of the Humvee, load him on a stretcher and heft him over to the chopper, ducking against the sand kicked up by the still-whirring blades. Steve braced himself over Bucky’s head, tried to prevent the worst of it being blown into Bucky’s face, the flesh of his exposed shoulder. 

Once the stretcher was loaded, Steve’s guys turned and ran for the vehicles, heads low. Bucky’s eyes were back on his face, locked on with that predatory sniper stare, except there was fear in them, now. Steve had never seen fear like that in Bucky’s eyes, and maybe that’s what did it— maybe that’s why he suddenly found himself digging his fingers in, leaning in, and then his mouth was on Bucky’s, desperate and hungry and so, so… scared. 

It was over in an instant. Sam yanked him off by the back of his collar, shoved his head down, away from the spinning rotors as he hauled Steve back to the Humvees, cleared the LZ a split second before the helicopter was airborne. 

Dumb with something like shock, Steve was put into a vehicle, strapped in, rifle against his thigh. And he didn’t think about the fact that there were two body bags behind his knees. Didn’t wonder what Sam was thinking. Didn’t worry about whether any of the others had seen. 

None of those things registered, because he would never know what Bucky’s reaction was— Steve’s eyes had been closed. 

_***_

**_Now._ **

To say Steve is a little surprised to see Bucky when he arrives with Morita for his 0800h intelligence briefing is somewhat of an understatement. 

“Barnes,” he blinks, straightens up a little. “I wasn’t aware that contractors are sitting in on intel briefings, now. Do you even have the clearance to be here?” 

“Wow, coming in _way_ too hot there, Cap,” the petite redhead woman at Bucky’s side snorts.

Steve has maybe not been getting enough sleep. 

“And you are?” Steve says brusquely, catching Bucky giving him a wary sideways look at the question. 

“CIA,” the woman chirps, and Steve pivots fully towards Bucky, outraged. Having endured many an indignant and righteous speech from Steve, Bucky cuts in before Steve can open his mouth.

“Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers,” Bucky introduces them, then turns on his heel. “I’m out.” 

Steve is left gaping dumbly at his retreating back for a moment, before he scowls at Morita’s bemused expression and rounds on the woman, Romanoff. “Since when are we providing information directly to the CIA?” 

She grins beatifically up at him. “Since your boss signed on the former Sergeant Barnes and his men.”

“This was through _Bucky_?” 

Her grin widens at the nickname, or rather, at his reddening ears when he realises the slip. She kind of reminds him of a shark. “You bet. Now; I would love to stand here and debate the erosion of the political-military divide and heavy-handing within the national intelligence community, but we’d better get down to business— you roll out in two hours.” 

Damn it. He kind of likes her.

***

Their mission is door knocking, trying to hunt down a target known to be an insurgent. It’s nothing they haven’t done a hundred times, but Steve can’t seem to shake a bad feeling about it as they load the Humvees, roll out of the base. 

The convoy out is quiet— Bucky’s riding shotgun with him again, IED spotting, Sam on top gun. Monty’s in the back, flipping a blade between his fingers, the glare flashing at Steve in the rearview mirror.

“Hey, Barnes,” Monty asks after a while, ducking around Sam’s legs as he leans forward. “How’s the arm treating you, huh?”

Steve can see Bucky stiffen out of the corner of his eye, both keeping their gazes locked on the road in front of them. Bucky’s voice is uncharacteristically small when he responds. “It’s okay.” 

“Heard they used a tourniquet on you— was there muscle damage?” 

Steve’s ears are ringing a little, face too hot.

“No, no,” Bucky responds, clearly tries to brush it off. Tucks the fingers of one hand subconsciously beneath the band of his thigh holster. “Just a lot of bad scarring, really, a limited range of motion. But, hey, I only need my right arm to shoot.” 

Monty laughs at the forced joke, settles back in his seat, the inquisitive medic in him satisfied. Even Bucky’s shoulders seem to be easing back down— Steve is the only one who is having trouble breathing. 

“Hey, Cap,” Bucky says suddenly, dragging Steve up from under the water’s surface. “Pull over for a piss break, would ya?”

Steve thinks he manages a nod, weak smile, as he signals to the other drivers and pulls them to the side of the road, calls for a five minute break. He doesn’t realise that Bucky hasn’t gotten out of the vehicle with the others until there’s a gentle hand on his arm. 

“You with me, ace?” Bucky’s voice is kind, and Steve blinks away the onslaught of memories, all those times where Bucky would reach out, see through the facade, know just what to say to calm him down. 

Steve must take too long to answer, because then Bucky’s carefully tugging Steve around to face him, both hands just below his shoulders now, all up in Steve’s space. His eyes are so fucking blue. “It’s ok, everything’s alright, see? We’re ok, Stevie.” 

That name in Bucky’s mouth knocks him on his ass, gets him clearing his throat, pulling back a fraction. “M’sorry, sorry, s’just… Monty—”

“Yeah,” Bucky huffs out, drops his hands back into his own lap. “Last time he saw me I was all drugged up in that hospital. Guess he didn’t think about the fact that some of us might not wanna re-live all that.” 

There’s an unspoken question there. Steve breathes in sharply, “Shit, I know I didn’t… I should have visited you—”

He’s cut off abruptly as Sam and Monty come clambering back into the vehicle, and right, they’re on a fucking mission, and this is why Steve didn’t want Bucky riding with him. He chokes back the unspoken words, tries his best not to read into the sudden blank look that’s dropped over Bucky’s face. Always wearing that mask.

They dismount two kilometres out from the village, cover the rest of the distance on foot. Bucky and Dernier break off early, climbing up to a rooftop with the sniper rifle for a better vantage point. Sam and Dum Dum lead the patrol, Steve bringing up the rear with Clint and Lucky so he can keep eyes on his men. 

Everyone’s alert, but the houses they’ve door-knocked so far haven’t turned up anything suspicious. Bucky is, as always, singing under his breath, staticky over the radios. 

“Could you shut up, Barnes?” Sam bites off into the radio at some point, after another fruitless house call. Bucky’s into _Queen_ at the moment, and he’s halfway through quite an eerie rendition of ‘We Will Rock You’. 

“Keeps me calm,” Bucky hums out. “You don’t want your overwatch to lose his temper, do you?” 

“Jesus,” Clint mutters next to Steve. 

“Sam, zip it,” Steve orders, voice low and direct, “Barnes, get off the air if you’re gonna keep that up. I want this channel clear.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Bucky mutters to the tune of the Spongebob theme song, then switches his mic off. 

Clint snickers at Steve’s side, shaking his head when Steve shoots him a glare. “You guys sure know how to rile each other up.” 

After two more houses produce fuck-all, Steve calls Sam back to him. “We’re getting nowhere like this. Start offering the money, and do a full search if anything feels even just a little off.” 

Sam nods, jogs back over to relay the information to the breaching party, and Steve’s second frequency clicks off on his headset. He changes over with a sigh. At least it’s the private channel.

“I can’t cover you if you go all the way inside, Rogers,” Bucky protests, sharp and serious. 

Although he was fully expecting the pushback, Steve bristles a little, snaps. “Well nothing else seems to be working, does it. We know what we’re doing.” 

Bucky pauses, digesting the unspoken statement. _I know what I’m doing_. 

“I don’t like it, Cap,” he says carefully, clearly trying to de-escalate the conversation. For some reason, it irks Steve even more. 

“You don’t have to like it,” Steve growls, feels himself spiralling, can’t help it, “just do your fucking job, and stay off the comms!” 

He snaps the radio back to the main frequency, ignores Clint at his side, and signals for Sam to pick up the pace. The next house they try, Sam takes one look at the man who opens the door and radios to Steve that they’re entering. Taking off at a jog, Steve and Clint follows the others inside the property. There’s clicks on the other frequency which Steve ignores; probably Bucky objecting again to the team entering the house. 

Steve doesn’t see more than a small living area and a few dining chairs around a table, before there’s a sudden flurry of static over the radio, and everything erupts inside the house. 

Steve’s not really sure what happens, other than his brain goes to that cold place, the one where nothing exists except his training, his team, and his finger on the trigger. It only takes minutes to clear the house; he and his men operating like one fluid being, pivoting through rooms, taking hostages and taking down the ones who put up a fight. In the aftermath, Steve thinks they’ve finally had a win, that something has actually gone his way, and then he sees the blood.

“Steve!” Sam shouts, but Steve’s already scrambling over, sliding to his knees where Gabe is sprawled on the floor with a bullet in his thigh. 

“I’m alright, Cap, really,” Gabe is protesting, helping Sam to apply pressure to the wound. “I’ve had worse on the farm.” 

Steve presses the heel of his hand into the socket of one eye, reaching for his radio. “We need a med-evac, Prior 2, gunshot wound.” 

There’s a minute of static before Bucky’s voice filters through, beyond tense and slightly out of breath. “We have to leave the village. Chopper can’t get in. Meet us outside.” 

Steve clicks the radio in acknowledgement and relays the info to Sam, who volunteers to wait out with the rest of the team for the vehicles coming to transport the detained men back to camp. 

Steve and Clint are readying Gabe to be moved when Bucky comes rushing in, helps them to load Gabe into the tray of a borrowed pickup. Steve and Bucky clamber into the back to keep Gabe stable and keep the pressure on his leg; Dernier at the wheel, taking off like a bat out of hell.

Bucky is furious. It’s radiating off him. He’s wearing the black camo neck scarf, leaving only his eyes exposed under the brim of his combat helmet, but Steve can tell he’s gritting his teeth as he braces himself over a silent, pale Gabe, and it’s only a matter of time before—

“Goddammit, Steve,” Bucky hisses, eyes livid.

“Don’t, not now,” Steve pleads, because he’s up to his elbows in someone else’s blood in the back of a truck in the middle of the desert and he’s so _tired_. 

“Next time, fucking listen to your overwatch!” 

“Fuck!” Steve shouts, snapping his head up. “Fuck, Bucky! I know!” 

Bucky must sense how close Steve is to breaking point, because he relents, shoving Steve away so that he can apply better pressure to the wound. “Clean your hands.” 

Steve lands awkwardly against the sides of the pickup tray, goes a little cross-eyed when he looks down at his own hands; crimson red, the kind of red that isn’t supposed to see the light of day. Swallowing, he snaps his eyes away, up to the horizon, where a warped, dark shape is hovering down to the ground. 

Dernier swings them around the ridge, and there’s the chopper, waiting, two medics rushing out to help Steve and Bucky lift Gabe onto a stretcher and load him into the bay. The efficiency is jarring; here one second, gone in the next.

Backs turned against the swath of sand as the chopper lifts up and away, Steve glances at Bucky to find him already looking, something vulnerable and shaken in his expression.

Steve knows they’re both remembering the last time they were here, when it was Bucky’s blood on his hands. Bucky doesn’t meet his eyes again. 

The mission is deemed by and large a success, but Steve has a hard time mustering up a nod when the CO congratulates him in his too-still-too-quiet office later that evening. 

He can’t even manage to drag himself to the mess, just wanting to collapse into his bed. Yet on the way back to his shitty mattress, he somehow finds himself standing in front of Bucky’s door, once again. 

Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s knocking, loudly; waits for Bucky’s muffled response before carefully pushing it open. 

The room is neat, orderly, with absolutely nothing to give away who might live there. Steve is struck by the lack of family pictures, the absence of posters on the wall. The only personal effects on show are the pile of knife sheaths and thigh holsters on the nightstand, and a small stack of books on the floor by the head of the bed, all poetry and classic literature. 

Bucky himself is sprawled out on top of the sheets, face turned up to the ceiling, fingers drumming out a beat on his bare stomach in time with the earbuds shoved in his ears. He’s clearly expecting someone else— Clint, maybe— but he turns his head after a moment, then scrambles upright when he sees Steve hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

“Shit, I thought—” Bucky blurts out, fishing around to tug on a discarded t-shirt, yanking his earbuds out in the process. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve stammers, already half-backing out of the door, ears gone hot when faced with all that warm warm skin. A little startled, he uncharacteristically clamps his mouth shut, obedient when Bucky waves for him to come in, to shut the door behind him. 

“No, I should be apologising,” Bucky is saying, eyes downcast from where he sits half-off the bed, toes turned in.“I should have never spoken to you in front of your subordinates the way I did today. It won’t happen again, I promise.” 

“What—” Steve huffs out after a blinking moment, incredulous, forces himself to start again. “No, Bucky. I came in here to see if you were okay, after…” 

“Oh,” Bucky breathes out, eyes round as he looks up in surprise. “Oh.” It’s then that Steve sees how his eyes are rubbed red and raw, how his whole body seems to be trembling slightly. 

Slowly, watching Bucky for any signs of discomfort, he moves to sit down carefully at the far end of the bed. “Talk to me. It’s just me, Buck.” 

_I want to take you somewhere, so you know I care. But it's so cold, and I don't know where._

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he breathes out finally, eyes fixed somewhere far away. 

Steve considers, nods after a minute. Tries to say the right thing, the kind of thing that Bucky would have offered up to him five years ago. “It’s hard to come back. Harder to stay home.” 

Bucky knows about Steve’s home life. Or, knew, back when they were friends. Steve wonders if he still remembers; is rewarded with a sad sort of recognition as Bucky’s eyes flick to his and away. 

Then he grunts out something like an agreement, reaching under his bed to pull out an oddly-shaped bundle wrapped in socks. Steve wishes he was more surprised to see Bucky unwrap a flask, clearly smuggled onto base. No alcohol is permitted when handling weapons. 

“You don’t mind, do you,” Bucky says, and it’s not a question. He’s already got his teeth on the lid, throat working as he swallows, like he knows it’s a sure thing Steve won’t tell. 

“Fuck,” he gasps wetly after half-draining the flask, dropping his head so his hair obscures his face. “Do yourself a favour, ace. If they ever kick you out— stay out.”

Alarmed, Steve tries to get himself into Bucky’s line of sight, tries to snag his attention, draw him back up to the surface. “C’mon, Buck,” the nickname slipping out so easily, now, “What happened today was— You’re… it’s not like that. We aren’t there anymore.” 

“But we fucking _are_ ,” Bucky whispers, big glassy eyes turned, pleading, on Steve. “It’s the fucking same, it’s always the _same thing_. I am only good at one goddamn thing in this world, and now I only have one arm and my _fucking hands won’t stop shaking_.” 

“Bucky,” Steve breathes out, voice catching around the syllables. He doesn’t even know where to begin— but Bucky is slipping sideways on the bed, and Steve jolts to catch him, and then Steve finds himself with an armful of Bucky, his wet face pressed into the crook of Steve’s neck. 

And whatever has happened between them in the past doesn’t really seem to matter, when this is Bucky— _Steve’s Bucky_ — muffling hitched breaths into the collar of his shirt. He digs his fingers in.

“I’ve got you,” Steve murmurs, sighs out, promises, “I’m sorry.” 

Then he stops speaking at all, just holds on tight. Bucky breaks under his hands, shaking like he can’t stop, and Steve bites his tongue until it bleeds; tries to draw all the hurt out of Bucky and absorb it into himself, where it can sit just below the surface of his skin, black and writhing. 

Bucky shudders apart, stitches himself back together. Steve sinks a little more under, stares at the single scrap of paper taped to the wall, familiar neat handwriting stark in black ink. 

_But they are there. And I am here. This incompleteness is all we have._

*** 

Steve must have been kidding himself to think that their little heart-to-heart that night solved this… _thing_ between them. This magnetic opposition, eyes meeting then darting away, wrong wrong wrong feeling in the pit of his stomach _thing_. If anything, it seems to have made it worse. 

Sure, it was a little awkward after Bucky had finally pulled himself together, shrugged out of Steve’s arms. But breakdowns like that weren’t really that uncommon in their line of work. They should have been able to nod, share a few pats on the back, and move on with their mission. And yet…

Bucky wasn’t exactly avoiding him, as had become status quo. In fact, he seemed to be hovering at Steve’s elbow more often that not, a shadow that got Steve’s heart rate spiking every time he turned around. 

People had come to expect it, started referring to them as a unit: were Steve-and-Bucky going to the gym later? Did Steve-and-Bucky want to come play cards? ‘Oh, hey Cap— where’s Barnes?’ 

It was driving Steve insane, because Bucky was always _there_ , but he never said a thing. Just watched him, drifted in his orbit, that blank expression drawn down tight. 

Steve couldn’t get a read on him; just wished Bucky would tell him what he _wanted_. Kind of wished that tumbling feeling in the pit of his stomach would go away. 

They are supposed to be having a night off, no mission, when intel reporting comes in indicating that one of the key insurgent leaders is meeting with two of his commanders in an abandoned textiles store in town. Tonight. Which means that Steve’s team is grabbing their gear and piling into the Humvees with minimal prep time. 

They have six hours until daylight when they enter the town, splitting into two teams with support from an infantry unit blocking the main access roads at the town perimeter. Steve is leading the Alpha team in from the north, and Sam is heading up the Bravo team, from the south. Bucky and Dernier are on the ground with them tonight, the area providing little in the way of good vantage points for overwatch. 

Steve hadn’t second-guessed himself for a second when he assigned Bucky into Sam’s team, but now, watching their shadowy figures creep along the exterior of the textile store, there’s that sickening feeling in his stomach again. 

On Steve’s signal, Sam’s team breaches the property, shots immediately fired, and Steve’s team takes off at a run, entering the building from the rear and rounding up stragglers as they move through the property. 

He catches sight of Bucky a few times as they clear the building— cold blue eyes, emotionless, expression hidden behind that black camo scarf. He moves like a predator; all prowling efficiency, mechanical, precise in his kill shots.

Steve’s eyes are sticky, glued to Bucky’s dark shadow in the corner of his vision; head turning sharply as he dodges bullets, always trying to get a glimpse of the sniper, track his movements. It’s a miracle Steve makes it out alive. 

For the first time, everything on this mission has gone right, and none of Steve’s guys come away with anything more than a few scrapes, ringing ears. Spirits are high. Steve’s a little preoccupied with helping Sam properly restrain the captured insurgents, catalogue the surrendered weapons, and so he doesn’t quite notice when Bucky slips away. 

While they’re waiting for the infantry unit to come and transport the captured men, he finds Bucky crouching against the wall in the back alley of the shop, inspecting his rifle and knives. Quietly, Steve takes a step closer, slides his back down the wall until he’s mirroring Bucky’s crouch. He itches to take his helmet off and run a hand through his sweaty, gritty hair. 

“Team did good in there,” Steve hedges, restraining himself from chewing on his bottom lip right after he says it. Bucky barely seems to register the statement, shoulders slumped as he flips the body of the rifle over distractedly in his hands.

“I shot a kid in there,” he says eventually, almost conversationally. Steve can’t help but wince, hopes Bucky didn’t see. Knows he’s been trained to see everything. 

“He was going to shoot you,” Steve murmurs after a moment, cuts his eyes sideways at Bucky. “I saw it. You were within your ROE.” 

Bucky drops his rifle, the sudden clattering of metal on stone making Steve flinch. “I _shot a kid_. In the _head_ , Steve.” 

Bucky’s anger stirs up something inside of Steve, and he remembers turning and throwing up into the sand the first time he saw the aftermath of a bomb, remembers Bucky grabbing his arm and keeping him moving even as his brain whited out in shock.

Steve breathes out evenly, meets Bucky’s eyes as steadily as he can. “I know, Buck. I understand. We’ve all had to do it.”

Something in Bucky’s expression shifts as he watches Steve, then he tips his head back against the wall, huffs out a sigh that sounds like it comes from deep beyond his ribs. “Fuck, man. They weren’t using fucking kids last time I was out here.”

“It never gets easier. That’s what keeps us human,” Steve says, quietly, and he knows Bucky recognises his own words echoed back to him when his head suddenly snaps over, eyes boring deep into Steve’s. “But you’re not alone.” 

Bucky rolls his head away slowly with a sigh, eyes drifting back up to the sky. “We’re all alone, Stevie.” 

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. And so he sits and watches Bucky watching the faint, flickering stars, counts the lines on his face that weren’t there before. And when Sam comes to find them, Steve can’t meet his eye. _You just get numb._

*** 

It becomes obvious to the senior leadership that their team is getting run down, and so one Thursday evening the CO calls Steve into his office to let him know that his team is being sent to Germany for two weeks of R&R. He musters up a smile in thanks for his CO, and for when he breaks the news to his team, but he knows he’s not the only one who is secretly dreading the thought of being thrust back into civilian life for two weeks, with no daily orders or direction. 

They’re put up in a US-owned hotel in Berlin, each given a room spread out across a few different floors. The hotel is fairly modern, filled with other coalition military personnel who are also on short leave. The gym is unusually large, clearly designed with the client in mind, and there’s a full 25-meter undercover swimming pool, with a few adjoining hot tubs.

They take the first night to settle in, which leads to Steve almost immediately racking out on top of the made bed, waking up fourteen hours later to a note on hotel stationary being slid under his door. It’s in Sam’s handwriting, telling him that most of the team is heading down to the pool to have a few drinks. 

Steve groggily gets himself dressed, then wanders down to the pool area. Sam spots him first, waves him over to the group of sun loungers he’s commandeered, but Steve’s frozen in place, eyes stuck on Bucky. 

He’s sprawled out flat on his back on a sun lounger, black bandana draped over his eyes, earbuds in as always. But the thing that’s made Steve’s heartbeat thump against the back of his eyelids is the fact that Bucky’s clearly just pulled himself out of the hot tub. Droplets of water cling to his skin, pink with heat, muscles visible in his stomach when he shifts; all framed by a pair of very small, very clingy fluro pink swim shorts. 

Sam is sitting fully upright in his chair now, hands cupped around his mouth. “Yo, _Steve_!” 

Sam’s shout jolts Bucky, his eyes immediately meeting Steve’s as he raises his head, the black cloth falling away. Steve’s face burns at being caught staring, and he quickly turns and shuffles over to where Sam is grinning obnoxiously at him. 

“What,” Steve snaps at him, no heat behind the words, and Sam just snickers, holds out a beer towards him. 

“Nothin’, Cap,” Sam smiles beatifically, ushering Steve to sit on the spare lounger at his side. “C’mon, relax. Hey, did I ever tell you about the rotation we went to the Pamplona run of the bulls during R&R?” 

Steve shakes his head, settles in for another of Sam’s frankly ridiculous stories, but can’t help the way his eyes keep drifting over to Bucky every other heartbeat. He’s got one arm propped up behind his head now as he stretches out, black bandana discarded in favour of staring up through the foggy glass roof to the powder-blue spring skies above. He never looks their way, although Steve can’t shake the feeling of being watched. 

Steve doesn’t notice that Sam’s given up on trying to talk to him after a while, because he’s zeroed in on the guy who is suddenly occupying the lounge chair next to Bucky’s, striking up a conversation. Making him laugh.

He tries to ignore the way his heart jumps up into his throat when the guy stands to leave, walks back into the hotel, and a few moments later, Bucky stands, follows. Doesn’t glance over at Steve even once. 

“Shit,” Sam breathes out next to him, barely audible, and when Steve turns his head, Sam’s already watching him— watching him watch Bucky— and his eyes are swimming with pity. 

*** 

After a few days spent mostly drinking around the pool— and in Steve’s case, watching Bucky read all day, then disappear in the afternoon to return bright eyed and pink cheeked at dinner— their team seems to come to the unanimous decision to hit the town and get absolutely wasted. 

They’re waiting in the hotel lobby for the last few stragglers to come downstairs, when a cool, dark voice says “Hey,” from behind Steve. He turns, and sorta forgets to blink as he gives Bucky a reflexive once-over. He’s in black boots, black skinny jeans ripped at one knee, and a semi-sheer, pastel rose-pink button up shirt; the first few buttons left undone, showing off skin tanned caramel from laying in the sun all week.

Bucky is smirking a little when Steve manages to bring his gaze back up to his face, flushing Steve’s ears red. His hair is in that half-up-bun thing that he does, and it makes his eyes look huge, startling electric blue. “Enjoying your week so far?” 

Steve has to clear his throat before answering, stammers. “Er, yes. Berlin has a lot of history.” 

“It sure does,” Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him, fails to keep the teasing amusement from his voice. “Not sure how much of it you’re taking in, though, staring at people by the pool all day.” 

“I’m taking in plenty,” Steve immediately retorts, caught out, and it’s out before the words really register in his brain; gets him sucking in a breath afterwards, neck gone red-hot. 

Bucky’s face lights up in delight, and he lets out a snorting laugh, which has Gabe and Dernier turning to look at them, curious. “Jesus,” Bucky chuckles, patting Steve’s shoulder as he passes him, heading for the lobby door. “Let’s find a bar.” 

It’s a little like whiplash, to go from having Bucky following him around everywhere, to ignoring him, then suddenly acting like an old friend again. Steve dutifully trails along after him, regardless— like a meteor crashing down into earth, got a little too close to the gravitational pull. 

They end up on what must be a party street, lined with people spilling out of bars, tripping along the pavement, hanging off each other’s arms. Something about the noise, the movement, makes Steve’s shoulders rise up above his ears, and he finds himself subconsciously shuffling a little closer to Bucky as they walk. 

“Let’s try here,” Bucky calls ahead to Sam, who nods and approaches the bouncer of the bar on their right, before waving their group inside. They’ve come at the right time, able to secure a table in the corner with a clear view of both the bar and dance floor area. Clint declares that he’s buying the first round, insisting that they all sit while he goes to order. Bucky slides in unceremoniously next to Steve, crowding together to fit everyone in, so that Steve ends up with the full length of Bucky’s thigh pressed up warm against him, hip to knee. 

Steve tries to drown the butterflies bumping against the walls of his stomach, gulping down the stupid fruity drink that Clint returns with. The tequila aftertaste hits him a moment later, and he breathes out with it, feels his shoulders loosening. After a few more ridiculous cocktails, listening half-heartedly to the chatter around him, Steve finds himself leaning a little more heavily against Bucky’s side. 

Bucky cuts his eyes sideways at him, then lifts his arm, allowing Steve to settle more comfortably against his ribs. He does it smoothly, naturally, all while carrying on with his conversation with Dum Dum. It turns the pit of Steve’s stomach shock-y and warm, or maybe that’s the tequila. 

That sniper-steady trigger finger is resting almost absentmindedly along the outside of Steve’s shoulder, and something about the assured familiarity of it all makes him want to let his eyelids drop, press his face into Bucky’s throat, go belly-up. 

The enormity of that thought slices through his tequila-fogged brain, and he sits up suddenly, heart beating a tattoo at the base of his skull. Bucky eyes him a little warily, like a wild thing. “Y’alright, ace?” 

“Gotta piss,” Steve mumbles, climbs none-too-gracefully over the legs of his friends, stumbles his way through the crowd to the bathroom. He sits on the closed toilet lid with his head in his hands for an undeterminable amount of time, then shakes himself upright, goes to splash some water on his face. 

Except Sam’s leaning up against the sinks, arms crossed, looking for all the world like the least subtle federal agent ready to bring in a perp. Steve frowns at him, hip-checks him out of the way so that he can get some cool water running. “Don’t ask me how I’m doing.” 

“Fine,” Sam says evenly, “then _what_ are you doing?” 

Steve pauses, turns his head to look up at Sam from where he’s bent over the basin. Sam’s got his ‘this comes from a place of love but I’m about to give you some hard truths’ face on. Steve does not like this side of Sam. 

“What does it look like,” Steve mumbles, ducking his face back under the spray. 

Sam hands him a wad of paper towels. “Looks like you’re having an identity crisis, and the fall out is about to take half the team under with you.” 

Steve splutters, stumbles back until he smacks heavily against the wall. “What… I’m not—”

“Hey,” Sam soothes, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not saying anything, and I’m not trying to make assumptions. But it’s my job to look out for the team— including you— and that means I gotta make sure that your head’s on right before we get back out there. Distractions get people killed.”

_Secrets get people killed._

Steve breathes out all in a rush, then looks up at Sam, nods. Whatever Sam sees in his eyes must reassure him, at least enough for him to clap Steve on the shoulder, then stride out, leaving him to swallow down his panic all by himself. 

After two minutes of trying to get his heart rate under control and avoiding his own reflection in the mirror, Steve squares his shoulders and pushes back out into the fray. He immediately spots Bucky leaning against the bar, talking animatedly with some guy. Steve’s heart sinks a little, but then he sees the guy shift closer, until his knee is brushing against Bucky’s thigh, and suddenly Steve is striding towards the bar with a single-minded determination. 

Bucky spots him over the guy’s shoulder, and his eyes light up, round and bright, glossy under the multi-coloured lights. Steve pulls up short, barely gets his mouth open around what is sure to be an incredibly transparent excuse, when Bucky stretches an arm out, hooks Steve around the elbow and drags him up against his side. 

“Stevie!” Bucky exclaims, giving Steve his biggest happy smile, teeth and cherry-red lips all spit-slick and shiny. He’s gotten drunk, happy drunk, and it makes tears form hot against the back of Steve’s eyes. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve tries grinning back at him. Blinks against the wetness welling against his lower lashes. 

“Whoa, there,” Bucky mumbles, suddenly deeply concerned. He’s got Steve by both shoulders, leaning his face in close, like if he looks hard enough he can see behind Steve’s eyes, pull the sadness out of him. “S’okay, ace, wha’s th’matter, pal?” 

Steve huffs a laugh. He forgot how Bucky would slip back into that gravel-Brooklyn-drawl when he’s a few drinks in. 

“Oh! There he is!” Bucky crows, clapping his hands onto either side of Steve’s face as if to frame his smile. “There’s my Stevie!” 

A not-small part of Steve’s tequila-addled brain is wondering what the fuck is happening right now. A larger part of Steve’s brain is pleased that the other guy Bucky had been talking to has walked away. 

“Hey!” Bucky is saying, squishing Steve’s cheeks as he shakes him a little, turns his face towards the stage. “Steve! Karaoke!” 

“Absolutely not,” Steve mumbles around the fingers digging in between his top and bottom jaw. 

“ _Stevie!_ ” 

“No, B,” Steve laughs, swatting at Bucky’s arms until he releases Steve’s face. 

“Fine, you big baby,” Bucky sniffs, flicking Steve on the chin as he saunters away towards the stage. “I’ll do it.” 

_Hate to see you leave, love to watch you go,_ a voice chimes out in Steve’s mind. He quickly averts his eyes from Bucky’s muscular legs in those jeans. Bucky is pestering the girl running the karaoke line-up, making a grab for the microphone, when Sam and Clint sidle up to the bar next to Steve. 

“What’s he doing?” Clint snorts, waving down the bartender for another round for the table. 

“I think he just gave that girl a hundred dollar bribe,” Steve hums, squinting his eyes against the blue spotlights sweeping out from the stage. 

“Wrong currency,” Clint laughs. 

Bucky has managed to wrangle the microphone, and is signalling to the pasty teenager running the sound system to play a song.

“God, doesn’t he ever shut up?” Sam sighs, as intro music begins thumping out across the bar. “Always with the singing.” 

Steve feels all of the blood in his body rush south when Bucky begins his little performance in earnest; meeting Steve’s eyes, predatory, as he raises the microphone. “ _I was good on my own, that's the way it was._ ”

It feels like his voice is vibrating down Steve’s whole spine. The air is too thick to breathe.

“ _Had some fun on the run though, I give it to you. But baby, don't get it twisted._ ”

His hips are dropping on the beat, now, drinking up the stage lights, eyes still stuck on Steve. 

“ _Didn't they tell you that I was a savage?_ ” The corner of his mouth raises in a smirk. “ _Never told you you could have it._ ”

Then Bucky’s mouth blows out into a full-on grin, and he skates off the side of the stage to swing around a support bannister, stripper-pole style, long, drawn out note— “ _You needed me_.” 

He laughs into the microphone, gyrating with the beat as he works his way across the room, sliding up and around people as he goes, lapping up the attention as the crowd drunkenly cheers him on. 

“Fuck, this is embarrassing,” Sam laughs, filming on his phone as Bucky crawls up onto their group’s table across the room, doing something very dirty with their bottle of vodka before being shoved away by Monty. 

Bucky is just laughing into the microphone now, tripping his way across the room until his eyes catch on Steve again. And then Bucky’s moving towards him, hitch in his hips, sidling up right against him— _too close too much—_ Steve’s pulse jarring against the beat. 

Steve braces himself against the bar as Bucky pushes himself up in between his spread legs, runs a hand up the front of his shirt, the other braced on his knee; before quick as a whip, he darts in, bites Steve where his neck meets his shoulder, then spins away. 

By the time the stinging bloom of pain has actually registered in Steve’s mind, Bucky has already used Sam as leverage to climb up onto the bar, draping himself across it dramatically as the song comes to an end. 

“Jesus—” Sam is saying, Clint cackling in Steve’s other ear as the crowd erupts with cheers around them. Bucky’s head lolls on the sticky countertop until his eyes meet Steve’s, grinning up at him, so happy it hurts. 

Predictably, the bouncer is at their side in a heartbeat, telling Bucky to take a walk. Clint begins to protest, but Steve waves him off, tells him he’s got it. 

Bucky grumbles as Steve helps drag him down from the bar, but goes along easily enough as Steve hustles him outside into the cool night air, gets him leaning against the brick wall of the back alley. 

“Did y’like my show?” Bucky grins up at him through the tangled mess of hair curling against his forehead. 

Steve huffs, sets about shoving Bucky’s hair back out of his eyes. Bucky’s eyes flutter shut at the scrape of Steve’s fingers against his scalp, so he promptly drops his hand, clears his throat. “It was— a lot.” 

Bucky’s eyes pin him in place, smile spreading slow and syrupy across his face. “You liked it. You like my singing.” 

Steve can’t help but answer honestly, voice whisper-soft. “I like when you’re happy, B.” 

Bucky’s cheeks go a little pink, eyes gooey black as he presses his thumb into the dip of Steve’s chin. “Like it when you call me that.” 

His voice is so low, sticky summer tar and gravel. It sends something electric down Steve’s spine, and he finds himself leaning in when a voice shouts, “Oi! Take that shit somewhere else!” 

Bucky’s jaw visibly clenches, and in a split second he’s a predator again, stepping around Steve to square up to the guy who called out, some jacked-up gym junkie in a tank top. “What did you say?” 

The guy drops his cigarette into the gutter, takes a few steps towards them. “I said, take your boyfriend, and get lost.” 

“Hey,” Steve snaps, trying to get in between them, de-escalate, when two of the guy’s friends suddenly drift a little closer, flanking the big one. “Let’s all just walk away, huh?”

People are starting to spill out from the bar, and Steve gets a glimpse of his team moving steadily towards them through the crowd.

“Maybe you should listen to him,” tank top guy sneers at Bucky, looks him up and down. “I guess you’re a bottom, then, huh?"

“I’m a threat,” Bucky quips, and lunges. It’s dirty fighting, the two other guys latching onto Steve straight away as he tries to pull Bucky away from tank top douchebag. 

Dernier and Sam are at his side in an instant, yanking one of the idiots off as Steve shoves the other one into the street. Bucky’s got the tank top guy flat on his back, blood and spit flying as Bucky lands a fist into his jaw once, twice. Clint gets a knee up in between them, shoves at Bucky’s chest until he eases up, allows himself to be dragged off the guy by Steve. 

“Fuck, cops, split!” Morita calls, grabbing Clint by the collar and taking off into the crowd. Steve sees Sam and the others dart off down the street, and he grabs Bucky by the elbow, drags him down an alleyway and over a chain link fence. 

Bucky is laughing as they sprint, dripping blood down his chin from a split lip. They make it a few blocks before Bucky pulls Steve crashing into an alley to catch their breath, leaning into the shadowed wall. Bucky’s still grinning at him with bloodied teeth, panting happily, and it’s just the two of them, every time he turns, it’s always the two of them. His neck aches from Bucky’s teeth.

Steve can’t help it when he surges in, pushes Bucky back against the wall, and kisses him hard. 

Bucky tastes metallic and warm, and he’s still laughing into Steve’s mouth, until Steve gets his tongue against the back of his teeth, and then Bucky’s not laughing. He flips Steve roughly, crowding him up against the wall with his thigh shoved up in between Steve’s, pressing his body against him so hard that Steve can barely breathe— mind whiting out with the way Bucky’s tongue feels like it’s down his throat, just taking and taking and _taking_. 

He moans, guttural and wanton and animalistic, and he isn’t even sure that noise actually came from within him, but it shocks Bucky into pulling away, pushing Steve back when he tries to follow, gasping, “Wait, wait, slow down, Steve,” and then Steve starts to shake. 

He is a trained special forces soldier. He’s made it through more close calls than he’d care to count, and he has never freaked. But he just kissed Bucky Barnes, and Bucky kissed him back, and he kind of liked it, and now he can’t breathe. 

Steve turns wide eyes on Bucky, who is already watching him with a sad, gentle smile, hands careful on Steve’s shoulders. 

“I’m…” Steve whispers, stammers, “I’m… I think that I’m…”

Bucky shushes him, says, “I know,” and pulls him in, just the way Steve likes, with his face hidden against the warm skin of Bucky’s neck, and then the tears start. 

Bucky holds him as he cries, trembles, comes to the realisation that hey, he’s maybe a little bit not entirely straight. 

It hurts to cry himself out, but he eventually manages to pull himself back, wiping hastily at his face. He’s gotten snot all over Bucky’s shoulder, and he’s sure he looks disastrous. Steve Rogers is not a pretty crier. 

Bucky’s snort confirms it, fingers still gentle as he brushes Steve’s sweaty hair off of his face. “Hey there, hot stuff. Feel better?” 

Steve nods mutely, ducking his head away from Bucky’s prying gaze. 

“Come on, Stevie, look at me,” Bucky murmurs, crouching down to smile up at Steve. “There we go. Wow, the puffy eye look is a real winner on you, ace.” 

Steve can’t help but huff out an ugly laugh, which gets Bucky grinning, and he slings an arm over Steve’s shoulders and says “C’mon,” starts leading him back to the hotel. They amble along in a comfortable silence, Steve’s brain working overtime as they walk. 

The hotel looms bright and familiar in front of them, a reminder of the real world beyond Berlin, the war, and Steve stops short. “Can we… sit? Just for a minute?”

“Sure,” Bucky says kindly, drifting around the side of the building and plopping himself down onto an overturned milk carton, leaning back against the cement wall. “Talk to me, pal. I can hear the gears turning in your head from all the way over here.” 

Steve drops down heavily, tips his head up to the night sky, lets the words come rushing out all in a single breath, plain and simple. “I think I’m gay.”

Bucky gives him a minute, waits for Steve to look over at him before he smiles gently, always so careful with Steve, and says, “Well, I _know_ that I’m gay.” 

It makes Steve snort unattractively, which gets Bucky laughing, and the tension drains out of Steve’s shoulders as he tips his head back again, squinting to pick out stars against the city lights. 

“How did you know?”

Bucky lets out a solitary bark of a laugh. “My mom says she knew as soon as I started stealing her makeup as a child. I think realising I was only watching the dudes in porn was a dead giveaway, though.” 

“Oh,” Steve colours in embarrassment, immediately bans his mind from giving any consideration towards Bucky watching porn. “Er— does it get easier? Once you… know?” 

He half expects Bucky to give him the same answer as all those years ago, the _it never gets easier, doesn’t mean you’re alone_. Instead, Bucky’s face goes a little funny, and it isn’t until he turns to give Steve a good, steady look that he realises this is Bucky being open, honest. Vulnerable. 

His toes don’t turn in. 

“Some parts get easier. Some parts stay uncomfortable,” he twists his fingers into the hem of his shirt. “Sometimes in life you just have to put on a brave face.” 

Steve holds his gaze for a long moment, whispers, “Not with me, you don’t. Not anymore, Buck.”

Bucky blinks at his earnestness, uncomfortable with the attention, goes to rub at the back of his neck when Steve reaches out, snags his wrist. 

“Please, Bucky,” he pleads, eyes round like saucers under the moon, the street lights, “promise me.”

Bucky looks ten years younger as he shivers once, tongue pushing up against the backs of his teeth before he nods, slowly, breathes out, “Ok, Stevie.” 

Steve exhales, lets his shoulders drop, lets his hand slide off of Bucky’s arm. Steve is the first one to look away, tips his head back up to the sky, blinks into the stars, imagines them falling towards earth, specks of stardust catching at his eyelashes. He’s not sure how long they sit there, crowded onto rickety milk cartons, watching the heavens spin lazily by. 

Bucky breathes out a barely audible whisper, prying open the stillness. “ _Terrible presence, eat me or die._ ”

Steve tilts his head, vision heavy with Bucky, drowning. 

“ _Not this time baby_ ,” Bucky shuts his eyes, “ _but I’ll be back again._ ” 

Something squeezes all along Steve’s spine, propels him to his feet. A little startled, Bucky heaves himself upright, too.

“Thank you, Buck, for…” Steve ducks his head, looks back up with a heartfelt smile. “Well, for all of it. And look, I’m sorry, for— for kissing you. It was unprofessional, it won’t happen again, really.”

Bucky’s smile goes a little rigid, eyebrows pulling together. Steve frowns. “Buck?” 

Bucky shakes his head a little, face softening, finally says in a wonky voice, “Good night, Stevie.” He reaches out, squeezes Steve on the shoulder, then ducks around him to the entrance of the hotel, is gone.

Steve watches him go, pretends he doesn’t. _Here one second, gone in next._

*** 

Natasha, Bucky’s CIA contact, is waiting for them the second they land back in Afghanistan. 

She briefs them as they drive back to base: a village has been without water for three days, since the insurgents blew up one of the water pumps and have been holding the other one hostage, refusing to allow the villagers access. The sheikh has asked for their help, as his own people won’t go up against the insurgents. There’s a special engineer unit coming out in two days’ time to fix the damaged water pump, but first Steve’s team must clear out the insurgents and secure the area. 

There’s always a fight. 

They’re on a chopper at first light, silent and shivering in the desert cold. Steve’s pressed in between Dum Dum and Sam, Bucky directly opposite him, head tucked down, face hidden behind that black scarf. Their knees bump as the helicopter dips with turbulence, but Bucky never looks up at him. 

The last week in Berlin, everything had been great, as far as Steve was concerned. He and Bucky were getting along well, like old friends, again. Everyone seemed happy to take it easy after that night they had to run from the cops, and so most of the group had gone back to hanging around the pool or hassling each other in the gym. 

Steve didn’t think he could stand going back to lying on a pool chair watching Bucky, and so the morning after _that_ night, he went and knocked on Bucky’s door, barely getting a chance to second guess himself before Bucky threw the door open, very shirtless and very clearly having just rolled out of bed. 

“Oh, er…” Steve had floundered, quickly pulling himself together when Bucky glared at him— _and wow was that an actual growl?_ — because yes, Bucky Barnes was _not_ a morning person. “I was going to ask if you’d like to go to some museums? With me?” 

Bucky had continued to glare at him, until Steve was about two seconds from slowly backing away, and then he rasped, “Give me five minutes,” and promptly shut the door in Steve’s face. 

They’d had a good time, the rest of their trip, heading out every day to scour the city for museums and funky restaurants. Turns out Bucky was a bit of a history nerd and also an extremely healthy eater, when given the chance. 

“I’m an aspiring vegan,” Steve had dumbly blurted out one lunchtime, earning a look from Bucky that was probably intended to be withering but instead just seemed amused. 

So yeah, Berlin had been good. But on their last day, Bucky started getting quiet, distant. Somewhere between leaving the hotel and arriving at the airport, he’d completely retreated into himself, all that personality shoved down, behind this blank shell of a man. Steve counted the number of drinks Bucky downed on the plane, wanted to shake the stewardess for giving in to that lopsided grin, those glittering eyes.

It was so wrong it made Steve feel a little sick. But between the chaos of travel and now being rushed straight onto a mission, he hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to Bucky alone, try and work his way inside. Because Bucky looked like a time bomb, just waiting to go off. 

They land just outside the perimeter of the water station, move in as a silent, deadly wave. They have the advantage of surprise, for once, and it’s a quick, dirty fight. Bucky takes out nearly as many insurgents as the rest of the team combined, looking like an angel of death. Steve’s not sure if he’s afraid for him, or afraid of him. 

After, Steve splits his team up into security detail and guard duty over the few young men who had surrendered. They’ve radioed in for their supporting infantry unit to move in, take over until the engineers arrive the next morning. 

Steve takes first watch of the surrendered insurgents, does a quick double check to make sure none of them have any life-threatening injuries, then settles against a desk pushed against the dusty wall. After a moment, Bucky prowls in on silent feet, slouches down in the corner, giving no indication that he sees Steve propped against the desk, even though Steve knows Bucky is aware of every breathing thing in the room. 

He starts breaking down his rifle to clean it, a move Steve’s seen him do so many times before, then he pulls out a couple knives too, wipes them down. Steve is a little horrified to see blood on them, and that’s when he sees the blood seeping into Bucky’s shirtfront. 

Steve sits bolt upright, which causes Bucky to snap his head up towards the captured insurgents reflexively.

“You’re bleeding,” Steve says, and his voice sounds like he’s underwater. Bucky pauses, looks down at himself.

“Shit,” he says mildly, and before Steve can scrabble over there, get a hand on him, keep the blood in, Bucky’s lifting his shirt, poking around at his stomach. There’s only one shallow cut, bleeding steadily, but there’s little slices all along his sides, pulling at his skin when he moves, muscles jumping. 

“Just a scratch,” Bucky declares, voice unnatural and flat, tugging his shirt back down. His gaze flicks over Steve for just a second, but it’s quick enough that he catches Steve before he has a chance to close his gaping mouth, tear his eyes away from Bucky’s abdomen. 

“Take a picture, ace. Lasts longer,” Bucky drawls, so casually cruel that Steve feels nauseous. He sucks in a deep breath, but Bucky beats him to the chase, even with his head down, hidden. “I don’t want to hear it, Rogers. I’m fine.” 

_Rogers._ It hurts like a punch to the gut.

“You’re not,” Steve says, forcing it out even as his voice wavers. Bucky is shaking his head. “You’re not fine. _James_.” 

Bucky flinches at the name, eyes shooting to Steve’s. “It’s just a scratch,” he protests, but his voice comes out small, too quiet. 

“I’m not talking about the cut, Buck.” Steve holds his gaze, makes to move towards him, one hand outstretched as if to calm a skittish animal.

Bucky flinches again, pulling away, then grabs his rifle and darts out the door. It’s a coward’s move, running away when Steve can’t leave the captured men unattended. He has to wait until Dernier comes to relieve him before he can go in search of Bucky. 

He finds him staring at the horizon near the north end of the pump house. He doesn’t turn his head as Steve approaches, which means he recognises the sound of Steve’s gait on the gravel. It makes something turn over in Steve’s stomach. 

“You’re relieved of watch, Barnes.” 

Bucky doesn’t shift a muscle. 

“Do you remember that rotation with all the sandstorms?” He continues without waiting for Steve to answer, voice sounding too-far away. “I think we had three in one day, that was the record. Remember Chappy? He hated those fucking things. The fucking sand, man. He told me that if they got him, he didn’t care if I had to torch his bones— just so long as he didn’t bleed out in the fucking sand.” 

Steve remembers Chappy. Can still see it when he closes his eyes— the white-hot explosion when one of the new corporals stepped on a hidden pressure plate, triggered an IED. Their CO told them they were lucky. Steve has never felt lucky. 

“Buck. Talk to me.” Bucky flicks his eyes at Steve out of his peripherals. “Come on. I know you, Bucky, and this isn’t you.” 

“Oh, you know me?” Bucky voice raises. “Do you, Steve? You don’t get to just— fucking _kiss me_ , and suddenly I haf’ta give you every fucking thing in my head.” Lashing out, wounded animal. 

“You promised me, you promised you wouldn’t do this again,” Steve heaves out, holds back tears. 

“Should have sealed it with a kiss,” Bucky taunts, face ugly and twisted.

Steve goes red-angry. “I said I was sorry!” 

“You’re _sorry_?!” Bucky’s shouting now. “You’re a fucking coward! You’re a coward!You fucking kissed me _twice!_ And then you’re gonna go around pretending it didn’t happen! Twice!” 

_“Shut up!”_ Steve screams, and then he lunges at Bucky, or maybe Bucky lunges at him— all he knows is he’s suddenly got Bucky’s shirt in his fists, pushing, pulling, and then they’re down in the dust, scrabbling at each other, tearing bloody stripes into their skin. 

Bucky rolls him, gets the high ground, rears back to take a swing— then there’s other voices shouting, and they’re being hauled apart by Clint and Sam. Steve struggles against Sam for a minute, until he sees Bucky push away from Clint and storm off out of the corner of his eye. 

“Watch him,” Sam barks at Clint, still gripping tight at Steve. “Have you lost your fucking _mind_?” 

“Get offa me,” Steve huffs, shrugging away from Sam, making for the pump building. “Shit. I’m going back on guard.” 

“Like hell you are,” Sam spits, planting himself in Steve’s path. “You’re going to take a fucking walk and cool off.” 

The fight drains out of Steve immediately, and his heart just sinks. “Fuck. Sam—”

“I really, really don’t want to hear it. Walk.” 

Steve ducks his head, begrudgingly turns— makes for the rear of the building, get out of eyesight of his team, avoid their shocked faces. He doesn’t make it more than the first corner before he stops dead in his tracks; backs away slowly from the hunched figure slumped into the sand, sobbing into his own hands. 

_If somebody hurts you, I want to fight. But I’ve fought myself one too many times._

*** 

Sam has to report the incident to the CO, and Steve wouldn’t expect anything less from him. Sam is a good soldier, a good friend. Steve doesn’t think he can say the same. 

Steve and Bucky are sent back Stateside the next week. 

They don’t talk, seated separately on the flight out of Dubai. Steve tries not to notice how Bucky’s eyes are puffy and red as they land back in the US. He imagines he can still feel a shadow of a bruise where teeth sunk into his neck. When he steps off the plane, the air smells all wrong. 

It’s the last time he sees Bucky Barnes.

***

Steve is ordered to attend therapy, with a civilian psychologist. It really fucking sucks for a few weeks, and then Steve starts to actually participate. The therapist doesn’t try to explain away any of Steve’s thought patterns, just acknowledges what he’s feeling, helps him untangle everything a little. When Steve works up the nerve to mention the fact that he might think he’s gay, his therapist just thanks him for telling her, and asks him to let her know if—when— he wants to talk about that a little bit more. 

It’s been a few months, and Steve is finally starting to feel a bit more pieced together, a bit less fragile, except he dreads the thought that he’s improving, because that means he’s that much closer to being sent back to the sandbox. 

Glumly, he wraps his scarf around his neck one Thursday afternoon, head bowed as he scuffs his feet down the steps of his therapist’s little brownstone, when someone clears their throat from his left. 

Bucky Barnes is standing on the sidewalk, in black skinny jeans and a leather jacket, and his hair is little longer, spilling out from under an olive green beanie, and he’s smiling timidly but his eyes are wary, wild animal eyes, and Bucky Barnes is standing on the sidewalk. 

Steve just breathes out, wordless, and Bucky grimaces, rubs at his neck self-consciously. Pigeon-toed. “M’sorry, I got the address from the unit, I just—”

“Bucky,” Steve says, and it’s like that first time, all those months ago; too breathy, too shocked, too emotional. “ _Buck._ ” 

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twists up, that unique fuck-you’re-an-idiot smile, and he huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, Stevie.” 

“I didn’t— how’re you… fuck, I am so sorry,” Steve gets out in a rush, and Bucky lets him, shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Bucky says steadily, practiced, “It was unfair of me to put my… feelings on you, and I shouldn’t have said what I did, not after you trusted me enough to tell me everything.” 

_Feelings._ Steve blinks, wants to protest, wants to shake him a little— _how did we end up like this what did we do to each other why did you kiss me back_ — but he thinks about what his therapist would want him to say, and settles on, “Okay. I understand.” 

Bucky looks relieved, _it’s important to get closure_ , then, “I also came to tell you that I’m getting out. Permanently. I’m going to work with a friend up in Brooklyn, fixing motorbikes.”

Steve just stares. 

“And I want you to know that if you ever decide to get out, there’s a job for you there. You can be a handyman, whatever. But it’s there, whenever you might need it.”

_Don’t leave me out there don’t make me go back._ “Okay. That’s…” exhales, “Okay. I’m glad you’re happy, Buck.” 

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky smiles at him, that terrible gentle smile that he only gives Steve; waters the flowers growing in his lungs and Steve’s not sure how much longer he can go on gasping for breath. 

“Well,” Bucky hedges, rocking on his feet a little as he looks around, and Steve suddenly becomes aware of the outside world again, too. “I’m glad I caught you, I wanted to tell you before I go.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “You’re leaving now.” 

Bucky nods, a strange sort of pity pulling at the corner of his eyes. “Yeah, going now to collect my papers from the VA.” He jerks his thumb up the street behind him as he says it, glances at his watch. 

Steve gets the hint. Doesn’t want to draw out this goodbye any more than they have to. So he clenches his jaw, pulls Bucky into a one-armed hug; and if he squeezes a little too hard and breathes in a little too deeply, Bucky doesn’t call him on it. 

“I mean it about the job,” Bucky says finally, tucks a folded post it note into Steve’s palm, and goes.

Steve watches him walk to the end of the street and turn the corner without looking back once. Then Steve spins, takes the stairs back up to his therapist’s office two at a time, and only feels a little vindicated when she looks shocked to see him tumble in with tears spilling down his face. 

***

**_Later._ **

“Thanks for this, man,” Steve says, dropping a set of keys into Sam’s hand. 

“Don’t thank me,” Sam snorts, slapping his hand appreciatively on the hood of Steve’s truck. Now Sam’s truck. “You know I’ve been eyeing her off for years. You sure you’re not going to regret it?” 

Steve glances at his Harley sitting solid and heavy against the curb. “Nah. I’ve got a feeling I’ll be getting more use out of the bike, where I’m headed.” 

Sam grins at him, rolls his eyes; pulls him in, claps once against his back. “Alright, alright. You know I’m proud of you. Don’t be a stranger, now, y’hear? And take care of yourself, Steve.”

“You too,” Steve says seriously, squeezes at his shoulder. “You be safe over there, Sam.”

“Always am,” Sam nods, “now get out of here, Cap.” 

Steve shakes his head with a smile, tugs on his duffel bag and helmet, swings a leg over his bike, and pulls away from the curb with a growl from the engine, tossing Sam a wave as he goes. He doesn’t look back.

The ride is pleasant, the thrum of the bike beneath him like electricity straight to his spine, buzzing his mind calm and content. The city gives way to bridges and rivers, then leafy streets and warm brownstones. He drifts through Brooklyn to the outskirts, consults the address on the worn-soft post it note riding in his pocket, before pulling up in front of a mechanic’s workshop. 

He cuts the engine, shrugs out from underneath his duffel bag, his helmet, takes his time placing them on the seat of his bike. Drawing a deep breath, he runs a hand through his hair, and slowly approaches the wide open garage door, follows the sound of tools clanking against chrome. 

There’s a man half-turned from Steve, crouched on one side of a gutted bike. He’s scrabbling around with both hands on the underbelly of the engine, tongue between his teeth and brows knitted together in concentration. His hair is scraped back from his face, smears of grease at his temples from where he’s had to re-adjust his untidy bun throughout the day. The grey shirt stretched across his shoulders is a mosaic of smudges and tears, the kind of mess earned from hard work and quiet days spent working a problem, fixing things, finally putting your shaking hands to good use. 

He doesn’t hear Steve approach, or he doesn’t seem concerned by the presence hovering in his peripherals, until Steve is standing five feet away, heart about to drum right out of his ribcage. The man reaches for a new tool, glances up, then drops his wrench, rising to his feet in one sudden, fluid motion.

Steve watches as his face flitters from shocked to confused to hopeful, then Steve clears his throat, says, “Excuse me, are you the mechanic? I’m here about a job.” 

The man’s eyes light up, blue blue blue, and he laughs freely, so loud it bounces off the rafters. He extends his good hand for Steve to shake.

“Of course, sir. You can call me Bucky.” 

Steve takes his hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to all of you that made it this far, comments and feedback is appreciated xx
> 
> There’s a lot of references in this fic to work that is not mine, credits below:
> 
> Song Bucky sings while cleaning his rifle: ‘Tequila Sunrise’ by the Eagles  
> Quote when Bucky leaves Steve’s room: ‘It is no secret what God can do’ Elvis Presley version  
> Song Bucky sings in the humvee: ‘Wild World’ by Cat Stevens  
> Steve walking past Bucky’s room: ‘Ribs’ by Lorde  
> Bucky singing on the stretcher: ‘American Trilogy’ Elvis version  
> Steve sitting on Bucky’s bed: ‘Another Love’ by Tom Odell  
> Quote Bucky taped on his wall: ‘The Aliens’ by Charles Bukowski  
> Bucky’s karaoke song: ‘Needed Me’ by Rihanna  
> Bucky’s quote sitting on milk crates: ‘The Lion for Real’ by Allen Ginsberg  
> Quote after they fight: ‘Another Love’ by Tom Odell


End file.
